I Am Fire and Air

By William Anthony

Four Friends Four Powers Four Truths

ONE: Always choose to care for and protect the least among us. We work to make the least become the greatest. TWO: Only do things that are principled; believe things that are true; preserve things that are precious. Being noble takes more courage than being loyal. THREE: There are very dark times when even basic human altruism must be an intentional act of rebellion. FOUR: What is done out of love is beyond good and evil.

Four teenagers who will not be missed are held and exploited by a contractor for the Department of Defense. Their exceptional abilities are used to create advanced weapons. The secret and sealed facility where they live and work is invaded, triggering automatic defenses that kill everyone but them. The dark weapons they have produced are released. Survival and escape seem impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491753408

William Anthony

Julino Willem Anthony werd in 1956 te Bonaire geboren. Onder de naam William Anthony heeft hij op verschillende locaties als zanger opgetreden. Ook schnabbelt hij soms als acteur en (edel) figurant in Nederlandse televisieproducties. Dit doet hij naast zijn reguliere baan. In dit boek blikt hij terug op de muziekbeoefening op Bonaire en geeft hij een samenvatting van zijn artistieke belevenissen. Dit is de tweede editie van Musika Maestro; de artistieke autobiografie van William Anthony waarin hij terugblikt op de plezierige momenten als artist. Daarnaast besteedt hij aandacht aan de muziekbeoefening op de eilanden Bonaire, Curaçao en Aruba.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Anthony William Pereslete.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5339-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5340-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920278

iUniverse rev. date: 11/18/2014

CONTENTS

Minus 16 Hours, 0 Minutes, 0 Seconds

Minus 14 Hours, 48 Minutes, 9 Seconds

Minus 14 Hours, 17 Minutes, 51 Seconds

Minus 12 Hours, 53 Minutes, 44 Seconds

Minus 12 Hours, 9 Minutes, 11 Seconds

Minus 11 Hours, 7 Minutes, 4 Seconds

Minus 10 Hours, 32 Minutes, 2 Seconds

Minus 10 Hours, 30 Minutes, 1 Second

Minus 10 Hours, 30 Minutes, 0 Seconds

Minus 10 Hours, 0 Minutes, 0 Seconds

Minus 9 Hours, 13 Minutes, 41 Seconds

Minus 8 Hours, 44 Minutes, 23 Seconds

Minus 8 Hours, 22 Minutes, 13 Seconds

Minus 7 Hours, 50 Minutes, 2 Seconds

Minus 7 Hours, 50 Minutes, 1 Second

Minus 7 Hours, 42 Minutes, 31 Seconds

Minus 7 Hours, 30 Minutes, 19 Seconds

Minus 7 Hours, 23 Minutes, 12 Seconds

Minus 7 Hours, 1 Minute, 3 Seconds

Minus 6 Hours, 55 Minutes, 58 Seconds

Minus 6 Hours, 36 Minutes, 8 Seconds

Minus 6 Hours, 18 Minutes, 4 Seconds

Minus 6 Hours, 8 Minutes, 11 Seconds

Minus 5 Hours, 55 Minutes, 9 Seconds

Minus 5 Hours, 25 Minutes, 1 Second

Minus 5 Hours, 21 Minutes, 42 Seconds

Minus 5 Hours, 3 Minutes, 26 Seconds

Minus 4 Hours, 53 Minutes, 38 Seconds

Minus 4 Hours, 38 Minutes, 11 Seconds

Minus 4 Hours, 19 Minutes, 9 Seconds

Minus 4 Hours, 12 Minutes, 18 Seconds

Minus 4 Hours, 4 Minutes, 31 Seconds

Minus 3 Hours, 36 Minutes, 3 Seconds

Minus 3 Hours, 13 Minutes, 4 Seconds

Minus 3 Hours, 1 Minute, 47 Seconds

Minus 2 Hours, 44 Minutes, 8 Seconds

Minus 2 Hours, 19 Minutes, 14 Seconds

Minus 1 Hour, 46 Minutes, 16 Seconds

Minus 1 Hour, 24 Minutes, 4 Seconds

Minus 22 Minutes, 58 Seconds

Zero

Plus 55 Minutes, 12 Seconds

To my wife, Lori.

Who knows that the real primal elements are air, earth, fire, water, and … love.

Out of life’s school of war: What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

MINUS 16 HOURS, 0 MINUTES, 0 SECONDS

ON BEHALF OF THE BOWMAN Sanders Corporation and the staff of Facility Number One, we wish you a very happy … sixteenth birthday … Javon.

Javon stopped dead. His tennis shoes squeaked on the white plastic floor. He had walked this white, sterile corridor more than a thousand times in the past two years, and the computer that ran this place had never spoken to him. The voice was feminine, robotic, indifferent.

He scanned the acoustic ceiling tile to locate the speaker but couldn’t find it. He did find a tiny camera lens concealed within a slightly larger perforation of a ceiling tile.

Javon considered thanking the computer for its kind gesture. Silly. Talking to a computer was like talking to a brick. Even so, he mouthed thank you to the camera and waited for a response. Only the gently rhythmic sighing of the ventilation system filled his ears—a sound like breathing.

Forget it. He continued down the corridor.

Javon shifted a large book, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, so that he could reach the blue elastic sling that carried his portable oxygen cylinder. He deftly positioned the mask and inhaled deeply. The slight ache in his single lung subsided, and some light-headedness went away. His slender, five feet ten inches of height needed a lot of oxygen. He stuffed the mask back into the shoulder harness.

Only a moment ago, Javon had passed a white-coated scientist in the hall who’d been going in the opposite direction. The computer had waited until it could be alone with him before it spoke. That had to be intentional. He was, after all, an ULTRA Black-Red Secret Project for the Bowman Sanders Corporation under contract to the US Department of Defense—for the rest of his life. Javon avoided thinking about that most of the time. But he would always be more than an orphaned black kid from South Central Los Angeles.

Classes were over for the day. He was due at his lunchtime birthday party in the canteen before work started. His saliva glands anticipated the taste of chocolate and cherry ice cream, his favorite flavors.

As Javon approached the junction of the corridor that led to the canteen, he collided with a female technician only a few years older than himself. She was also in a rush and dropped her clipboard. It clattered to the floor with an echo. Papers scattered about.

Sorry, Javon apologized.

He set down his book and sling. They both went on hands and knees to recover the papers.

No, no. My fault. Please don’t read them, ooh … the woman whimpered. It’s all right.

Javon carefully collected the papers, turning them printed side down. He was careful to touch only the papers and avoid touching the floor or the walls with his fingers. The most difficult lesson over the past two years had been that he must never leave fingerprints on Ground Level.

Javon paused to study her. Even worried and distracted, the technician was attractive in a forest-green lab coat that accented her light-blue eyes and long honey-blonde hair.

Facility Number One rules forbade any display of name identification.

You’re young to be an ULTRA person, she said in an uneasy voice without looking at him. Of course, I haven’t met many.

Javon swallowed. She had recognized his specially issued clothing, printed by a computer program and intended to make him inconspicuous and unmemorable. His clothes cost thousands of dollars apiece to produce, yet they had no style and were designed to be nothing. And he had chosen to wear these clothes and consciously allowed himself to disappear within the folds of the Bowman Sanders Corporation.

Javon gently helped the technician to her feet and handed over the collected sheaf of papers.

She smiled. Thanks for your help.

Javon could immediately tell that she was being polite rather than sincere, not by her facial expression or her voice quality but because he could literally see her thoughts. They were arranged about her in a pattern of shapes and colors that he could interpret. Gray blobs and flat pink shards revealed pretense.

Javon called his ability to see thoughts skimming, even though naming the ability gave him no control over it. Thought was not subject to any laws, any regulations. Thought was too perverse and chaotic to have rules. It could travel forward and backward in time. It could exceed the speed of light and occasionally assume a life of its own.

Without reading her thought pattern, Javon could see that she had become intrigued by his amber-colored eyes. Everyone thought they were unusual.

Javon offered to shake her hand. Ja—

Ah! she blurted. We’re not supposed to talk to the ULTRA people, much less know their names.

Javon, he insisted.

You’ll get me in trouble, she whispered.

Javon shrugged, dismissively. He tapped his chin with his finger. You have a bit of mustard there.

She self-consciously wiped it away with the back of her hand. Thanks. Hot dogs in the canteen today. I have to run. Late. As she strode away, she glanced at the small, green oxygen cylinder and mask on the floor.

Pain flared in Javon’s lung, a sad sort of pain. He wanted, above all other things, to be normal. But the lost lung would forever prevent that.

She made sympathetic eye contact. Be well … Javon.

He watched her blonde hair float as she trotted away.

Javon collected his things and proceeded to the heavy, airtight door to the canteen. The black-on-white plaque above the door simply said CANTEEN. No Tranquility Lounge or Cozy Café would be found in Facility Number One. He pressed his palm to a flat white panel on the door about eight inches on a side and waited for the computer to verify his identity and authorization before it opened the door. Everyone called these panels palm readers. This system of locks based on identification maintained tight security, especially in the underground sublevels. The surfaces of the palm readers were antimicrobial and automatically cleared away all traces of fingerprints.

White Clearance was the lowest security access in the facility. Everyone who lived and worked here had at least that level of access. Javon had no idea what the most restricted level was, but his Black-Red Clearance opened interior doors on this level and most of those in the facility’s sublevels. The door hissed open on smooth hydraulic hinges.

A stocky, dark-skinned man with black hair and wearing a black suit stood just on the other side. He was a couple of inches shorter than Javon but at least fifteen years older and twice as muscular.

Hello, Edwin, said Javon with feigned cheerfulness. He had expected to meet his bodyguard somewhere on the way to the canteen. Edwin always reminded Javon of those expressionless stone statues of Egyptian pharaohs. Without a word, Edwin motioned to follow. Today, Edwin’s thought pattern was grays and flat browns—he was deciding how he should feel. Usually, the patterns were dark greens with menacing crimson smears that trembled—signs of tragic, remorseful memories. Javon guessed that Edwin had once been a soldier in a troubled jungle place before being assigned bodyguard duties at Bowman Sanders.

Beyond Edwin was the loud canteen where people chatted across plastic folding tables. Javon’s nose flared at the smell of hot dogs, french fries, and onions.

Javon passed through the door. After ten seconds, it automatically closed and sealed airtight.

The canteen’s windowless, painted aluminum walls and tiled floor bounced the noise around and overwhelmed the acoustic ceiling. The room was perhaps forty feet on a side with sterile white walls, a sterile white floor, no decorations, and no soft background music.

Dozens of thought patterns assaulted Javon’s consciousness as he moved among the staff, causing him to stumble. Javon bumped into the hard lump of the machine pistol hidden under Edwin’s jacket. All the bodyguards carried them when ULTRA Project personnel were at Ground Level. Firearms were not allowed in the underground sublevels. An accidental discharge could disrupt sensitive experiments.

Bowman Sanders Corporation rules specifically prohibited the discussion of any project—past, present, or future. People could talk about anything but work. And everyone was under constant surveillance. Javon eavesdropped as those around him chatted about baseball, children, or the lottery.

Their thought patterns revealed hints about complex projects. Javon occasionally interpreted the more interesting patterns but always kept the information to himself. Edwin warned Javon, just once, that if he ever revealed anything about an ULTRA Project, he would be detained for treason and secretly put to death. The same fate would await everyone he had spoken to. Even Edwin’s life depended on his discretion.

He passed a small, white table where two middle-aged, scientific men with eyeglasses sat and enjoyed iced tea. The nearest man quickly shifted his chair to let Javon pass.

Javon avoided eye contact but could feel the man’s stare. He caught the merest glimpse of the man’s thought pattern. It was a dull pink with gray and brown patches—suspicion … and fear.

As far as Javon knew, he was one of only four special teenagers in Facility Number One. They were good friends and had arranged to meet here at lunchtime. Edwin invited himself, of course. Edwin needed to be present when the four were together on Ground Level, as much to protect them as to monitor their conversations and behavior.

Javon! He heard the familiar voices of his friends from an isolated corner of the room and went up on his toes to get a better look. Edwin gently steadied him. Javon returned to his feet and strode over to them with light steps.

Happy birthday! they said in unison.

Thanks, guys. Javon laid his oxygen and his book under the table and took a seat.

NX, to his left, was fifteen years old. He had come from Japan about a year and a half ago. NX was slight, a good five inches shorter than Javon, and dressed in the same intentionally unmemorable clothing as Javon.

Bro, you’re an old man, now, chided NX. Feel any wiser?

Javon shrugged. He remembered the day NX arrived at the facility, anxious and uncertain. Javon had greeted him as a brother by another mother, and that old joke had produced a soothing chuckle from the newcomer. NX was one of the most remarkable people Javon had ever known. NX had confided to him that as a newborn, he had been orphaned by the Kyokan earthquake and tsunami. NX had become fluent in English within the last year. Javon had shared a calculus class with him and realized that NX had a photographic or, more accurately, an eidetic memory. That was probably the reason NX was here in Facility Number One.

Ana sat across from him. She’d arrived from Brazil less than a year ago. Ana was the youngest of the four at thirteen, the smallest, and the quietest. A Riberinho was how she once described herself—one of the village settlers along riverbanks in the Upper Amazon Basin. Barely five feet tall, she was allowed to wear normal clothing with colors. Javon enjoyed helping her with schoolwork in the library.

Elina sat to Javon’s right. Elina was two months older than he. She had come to Facility Number One from Greece more than four years ago. Elina had been the only teenager in the facility when Javon arrived. She was at least as tall as Javon, perhaps taller. She wore a loose black T-shirt and looser sweatpants. Javon was surprised that Elina made no attempt to conceal the long sleeves of her thin black wetsuit. Elina was lean, with long, sinewy arms and large hands for a girl. He studied those hands. They were strong, with calluses. Scars dotted her knuckles. Her hair was set in tight cornrows. A single, long, thick braid fell down her back. Blue and green glass beads were threaded throughout it. Javon wondered what that braid felt like.

So why does lemonade taste funny after you eat mustard? NX asked the group.

Elina laughed and turned to Javon with a broad smile that graced her cheekbones. He caught the reflection of his amber eyes in her dark-gray ones just before she averted her glance and turned her head to conceal the ragged burn scars on her right ear and right side of her jaw. Javon always ignored them.

All four shared jet-black hair.

Javon regarded the plates of partially consumed salad and noodles on the table. A half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread lay next to NX.

Man, I am really hungry, Javon declared. I’ll be right back—

Elina pushed a tray of food to him and patted his shoulder.

Thank you, said Javon. His perfect lunch: a burger with everything but onions and ketchup, french fries, and coleslaw. Javon took a huge bite of the burger. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched NX and Elina return to their bowls of noodles. Ana poured some hot sauce from a plastic packet onto her quesadilla.

Javon wolfed down a few french fries, another huge bite of his burger, and a forkful of coleslaw. He glanced up to see that NX stared at him. Javon barely chewed and swallowed.

"Bro, you really like coleslaw?" NX asked, wrinkling his nose in obvious dislike.

I love coleslaw. Javon downed another portion. And a few more fries.

NX smirked. You know, you’re devouring lunch like it’s your last meal for a week.

Javon nodded.

NX wiped his hands on a napkin and handed Javon a card. We got you a birthday card. Just don’t eat it.

Javon managed a muffled Thanks between bites of his burger.

They all paused while Javon read the card: Happy Birthday, Javon. From Elina, Ana, and NX. Today’s NX joke: A fish and a snake were unable to walk into a bar.

Javon frowned.

Well, it was funny in Japan, insisted NX. I got you a present, Bro. Happy birthday. Open it, and then you can go back to gorging yourself. NX handed Javon a puckered white envelope.

Javon tore it open, and a bookmark in the shape of a hula girl fell out.

Squeeze her hand three times, real fast, gestured NX.

Javon pressed one of the hula hands, and the bookmark played a thin, tinny version of Aloha Oe. Slimvidio electronics made her grass skirt wave.

Thank you, NX.

Javon discretely watched Elina roll her eyes.

I have the perfect place for this. Javon retrieved his book of Shakespeare and momentarily flipped through the pages. "Hamlet, right here. Polonius to Ophelia: ‘Read on this book, that show of such an exercise may color your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this, ’tis too much proved, that with devotion’s visage and pious action we do sugar o’er the devil himself.’"

Javon glanced around the table. No one was interested in Shakespeare. Ana studied NX and Elina as they went through the operations to eat saimin. Javon put the book back under the table.

I think I want to try your simon noodles, Ana ventured.

Saimin, corrected NX. But try Elina’s. She likes hers with sausage. I’m not so sure you’re up to wasabi and kamaboko yet. You guys know the chef here is from Hawaii. Man, can she cook.

Javon munched on his burger as he observed Elina patiently instruct Ana in how to operate the bamboo chopsticks. Ana kept allowing the chopsticks to separate. The noodles dropped back into the bowl or onto the table.

Ana moped. I want to do this. I need you to help me, but go slow.

I think you’ve almost got it, encouraged Elina. Just relax.

Please, I really need you to—wait.

Hey, NX, let me borrow your chopsticks, asked Elina.

Okay. He gave them to Elina.

Just follow what I do, Ana.

By mimicking Elina, Ana performed flawlessly.

Thank you, Elina, murmured Ana.

Here. Trade. Elina gave Ana the saimin and took the quesadilla.

No, protested Ana.

Elina raised one eyebrow as a warning. It only caused Ana to smile. Elina failed to resist smiling in return. Without looking at NX, Elina handed the chopsticks back to him. Ana momentarily rested her head on Elina’s shoulder as she chewed her noodles and sausage. Elina gave Ana a little kiss on the top of her head.

Family, thought Javon. A real family.

I’m having saimin again tomorrow, said Ana as a noodle slipped out of the spoon back into the bowl and splashed a little broth onto the table. Oops.

We were just randomly thrown together, thought Javon. And every so often, randomness is perfection. He felt that all the days ahead were going to be perfect. In this perfect fishbowl world. Every single day …

… and Spam tastes good. My fave is musubi, rambled NX.

Elina was staring at Javon. Are you okay?

Yeah. Just thinking. He noticed that the room had mostly emptied. The kids and Edwin were among the last to remain in the room. He realized that he had eaten every bit of food on his tray.

Excuse me and Edwin for a minute. Elina rose smoothly from the table and guided Edwin toward the kitchen. Javon was always impressed by the way she seemed to glide rather than walk.

Okay, Bro, whispered NX. Are you in?

"That again?" whined Javon.

"Yeah, that. The three of us already decided. We even picked your name: Porthos."

Okay, so tell me, said Javon.

"There are only four of us kids in here, and we need to stick together—be a group. Ana got to call it the Tribe, but I got to choose our secret names from The Three Musketeers. Elina is Athos, Ana is Aramis, and I’m D’Artagnan."

Javon rolled his eyes. Remind me what the purpose is …

NX spoke slowly. Javon, how long do you think your project is going to last?

Javon shrugged. I don’t know.

What do you suppose Bowman Sanders and the Department of Defense will do with us when our services are no longer required? asked NX.

Javon had never thought about it.

NX sniffed. We’re all orphans, except Ana. You know that Elina and you and I won’t be missed. I don’t think Bowman will ever open the city gates and put us in a victory parade.

Javon didn’t think so either, but he said, Get real, in a mocking tone.

"In Hoc Feces, hissed NX. The highest bullsh—"

You’re being paranoid. Javon knew that NX reserved the phrase In Hoc Feces for the most extreme cases of injustice.

I’m scared too, Javon. NX is not being silly, declared Ana.

Okay, intoned Javon, so can you tell me what Chicken Little tale inspired you to—

Don’t make fun, Javon, scowled Ana. Even Elina thinks we should all do it. You need to decide while she has Edwin away from us.

Javon resigned himself. All right, how does it work?

NX tapped the table with his forefinger. If circumstances threaten the life of even one of us, any of us can use the codeword to permanently activate Tribal Mode—all-out war, in other words. One for all, and all for one. Fight to the death. The three hundred Spartans. We will take this whole place down then escape. And don’t think we can’t do that.

NX and Ana scooted closer together, and NX placed his palm on the table. There are rules. We’re democratic, and we vote on an action when we’re together. The open palm, or five, means yes. The fist—he made a fist to demonstrate—means a no vote, and this—NX extended the middle finger and thumb from his fist and joined their tips—a farkle, means abstain. Clear?

Javon nodded.

They’re coming back, hissed Ana.

Okay, whispered Javon. Even though it’s melodramatic, I’m in. This was a silly teenage clique, so why did it make him uncomfortable? We will take this whole place down. And they meant it. So, now I’m Porthos of the Tribe. What’s this codeword?

N-A-D-S, said NX in a low voice.

Seriously? Nads? chuckled Javon.

Not a drill, Soldiers. Ana fixed somber eyes on Javon.

Remember it, insisted NX.

Edwin was now close enough to hear them.

Ana quickly handed Javon a small item wrapped in aluminum foil. I’m sorry. They don’t have nice wrapping paper—here.

Thank you, Ana.

She gestured. Open it.

Javon peeled open the foil to reveal a tubular, T-shaped item carved from a rich, fragrant wood.

It’s a rosewood apito, or samba whistle, from Brazil, Ana explained. Blow in it—the big end. It’s lucky and will help make your lung stronger.

Javon took as big a breath as he could with his single lung and filled the room with the apito’s vibrant three-toned trill. The room momentarily went silent. Javon followed with a sheepish grin. Edwin immediately stepped directly in front of Javon to conceal him from most of the other diners. Don’t attract attention! he hissed.

Ana, this is perfect for me, Javon said. Thank you.

"Because it’s thórevos, noisy, complained Elina. She set down a large plastic bowl with huge scoops of ice cream, five plastic spoons, and a single candle. We’re sharing your favorite flavors—charming cherry and chunky chocolate chip!"

Try and say that three times, real fast, blurted NX. Charming cherry and chunky chocolate chip! Charming cherry and—

"Anwétos; silly, interrupted Elina. Thank Edwin for getting permission for the two of us to go to the posh supermarket in Malibu to buy your favorite ice cream and … sprinkles!"

Javon’s eyes brightened. Thanks, Edwin, Elina. This is great!

Elina unscrewed a small jar and poured on the tiny multicolored jimmies, ending with a flourish. Edwin lit the candle with a plastic cigarette lighter.

The faltering birthday song ended in the first phrase: Happy birthday to me … Javon’s singing voice was at best a saw-edged croak. His vocal chords had been irreparably damaged by repeated insertion and removal of the breathing tubes that had kept him alive during his long recuperation. Speaking was unaffected, but singing brought a painful reminder.

The four teens howled with laughter and couldn’t finish the song. Javon bowed and took his seat.

Blow out the candle, insisted NX.

Sure. Javon retrieved his oxygen. Stand back, everyone! He inhaled a lungful and feigned blowing out the candle. Edwin rushed to clamp a hand over Javon’s mouth. Javon’s muffled laughter infected the other three. Javon gently pried himself from Edwin’s hand and took a breath of plain air.

I wasn’t really going to do it, Javon insisted.

That’s right, said Edwin, a little miffed.

NX stopped laughing long enough to blurt out, Flame on! They would have talked about that stunt for weeks.

Okay, Edwin barked. "Blow out the candle normally, finish your ice cream, and go to your work." He drew a silvery plastic packet from his jacket; it contained special wiping towels he used to remove fingerprints from trays and tables. He then unfolded a large plastic bag from his jacket and started collecting paper plates and plastic utensils.

Make a wish, Javon. Ana’s eyes reflected the tiny flame.

What are the possibilities? he thought. Chaos. I wish that my sixteenth birthday sends a ripple through the universe.

MINUS 14 HOURS, 48 MINUTES, 9 SECONDS

D ISCOMFORT. THE ELEVATOR ALWAYS PUT Javon on edge. Its bare aluminum walls and vinyl floor reminded him of his long recovery period in the hospital. A lingering smell of disinfectant cleaner added to his irritation. Javon placed the oxygen mask on his face and took a shallow breath.

He knew that he had recovered enough strength and conditioning to use the stairs, even the long haul through Sublevel Three,